Her Hero
by rebeldivaluv
Summary: RHr. Mid OotP. Ron's a prefect...why?


Disclaimer:  JKR is a goddess.  I am a mere mortal.  I bow down.

Her Hero

He was a prefect.  He was a bloody prefect!

It didn't seem possible.  He still couldn't believe it.  Ron opened his hand a fraction and glanced again at the glimmering light of the brand new badge.  The Gryffindor lion.  The large, gleaming P standing out against its surface.  Without even realizing it, he pulled himself up straighter, to his full height—nearly six feet by now.

Ronald Weasley was going to be the tallest man in his family.  Ronald Weasley was a prefect.  Un-bloody-believable.

A grin swept across his face, unseen by any in the deserted hallway.  It had taken some doing, but he'd managed to sneak away from the party in his honor—a party in _his _honor.  No one liked to come into the stairwell, too much chance of waking Mrs. Black.  But Ron wasn't here to make any noise.  He just wanted to stare at his badge for a little while longer.

Not that he was happy about it.  No, not at all.  Who wanted to be a bloody prefect, like perfect Percy?  Like Charlie.  Like Bill.  Like his father and his mother and his grandparents before them.  No, Ron never wanted to live up to some stupid family legacy.

Except he did.

He knew he'd never planned on being one.  He'd broken too many rules.  He'd never done anything worthwhile.  There was nothing impressive about him…was there?  He wasn't a great student like Hermione.  He wasn't a hero like Harry.  Why him?  The twins had it right.  Who, in their right mind, would make _him a prefect?_

_Dumbledore did_, Ron thought, sinking onto the bottom step.  He rested his elbows on his knees and continued to stare, awe-struck, at his badge.  Dumbledore, his hero, the greatest wizard who had ever lived, had made insignificant, nobody Ron Weasley a prefect.  Again, the question repeated in his brain, the same numbing word that had been pounding there since he'd opened his Hogwarts letter and found this bloody thing.  

"Why?"

He made sure to whisper the word.  He hadn't forgotten the overhanging specter of Mrs. Black, but it had to come out of him sooner or later.  There was no reason in the world why he should be holding this badge right now.

_It should have been Harry_, he thought, with a trace of his old bitter jealousy.  Everyone had thought it should be Harry.  Ron had thought it himself.  It only made sense, didn't it?  Harry was the Boy Who Lived.  He was the one who had saved the Sorcerer's Stone their first year.  He was the one who had saved Ginny their second.  He'd saved Hermione and Sirius from a hundred Dementors by calling up a bit of magic even grown wizards couldn't do.  He'd dueled with Voldemort and lived.  Harry was the hero.  Harry was the perfect one.  Harry should have been the prefect.

Ron remembered the look on Harry's face when he had seen Ron's badge.  For an instant—a mere instant—Harry had been jealous of him instead. It had felt damn good.  But now, he felt guilty.  Harry should have been the prefect; he had every right to resent Ron.  

Fred and George thought Harry would be prefect.  His mother thought Harry would be prefect.  _She had thought Harry would prefect.  _

He tried to ignore how that last one stung the worst of all, tried to forget the look on Hermione's face when she'd rushed into the room and nearly flung herself on Harry.  She had taken it as a mere matter of course that she and Harry would be the Gryffindor prefects.  And why wouldn't they be?  Harry was the hero, Hermione was the brains, and Ron was just the…what?

"Sidekick," he muttered.  He didn't even try to disguise how much he loathed that word.  It wasn't that he loathed what he was, exactly.  He'd die for Harry and never regret it.  Harry was his best mate, his friend through thick and thin.  But he hated how other people saw him—the tag-along, the follower, the nobody.

Except now he was a prefect.

Except he shouldn't be.

Hermione was the brains, and she had known it was supposed to be Harry.  Didn't that answer everything right there?  Ron remembered how she had stumbled trying to figure out a reason why he would be chosen instead.  Nothing.  She couldn't think of a single thing that made him special.  It figured.  Neither could he.  But still, coming from her, it hurt.

It hurt like hell.

"Ron?"

Her voice was unbearably soft as she slipped in beside him, letting the noise of the party sink out for just a moment, before the door swinging shut muffled it again.  His head shot up to stare at her in open amazement.

"What?"  Ron cursed the cold, clipped tone of his voice. He hadn't meant to snap at her.  It was the last thing he wanted to do, but she had caught him unawares, when he was feeling most vulnerable, and the answer slipped out before he could stop it.

He thought he saw her wince in the soft light, before she stepped up to the bottom of the staircase.  "Mind if I sit down?"

"Sure."  He shrugged, simultaneously moving over to clear room for her by his side.  He tried not to notice how close she came to him as she eased herself down, how their legs kept involuntarily touching in the tight quarters, how her brown, bushy locks kept falling in her face, hiding her profile from his view.

"So we're prefects," she began, after long moments of heavy silence.

"Yeah," Ron grunted back at her.  If she had come with belated congratulations, he wasn't in the mood to hear them.

But such was not Hermione's intention.  She took a long, deep breath, and then let her business come out in a rush.  "I really think we need to be careful how we act around Harry now.  He's really hurt that Dumbledore didn't choose him.  He's making a good show of it, but I can tell.  On top of being left out of so much this summer, I think he's feeling a little raw, so if you could keep the exulting down to a minimum, I'd really appreciate it."

Shocked and wounded, Ron pulled as far away from his best friend as he could get—which, considering their situation on the step, was not far.  "That's what you came out here to say to me?" he hissed.

"Lower your voice," Hermione scolded, with a nervous glance at the covered portrait.

Ron didn't say another word.  He wouldn't repeat the question, but he kept staring at her in such an accusatory way that she eventually flushed and was forced to turn her face to the wall.

"What did you think I'd say?" she asserted, after a moment's pause, turning back to him with her usual fire.  "After you spend the whole day going on about your new broom, and your new badge, and—"

"I haven't said a word about my badge," Ron interrupted, though he kept his voice low and even.

Hermione snorted.  "No, you just carry it around with you everywhere you go.  Honestly."  Her hand flew out of his, to pry his fingers open and reveal the shining pin.  Then, her eyes widened, and she dropped his hand as though stung.  Her skin was flushed again.

Ron frowned, unsure what had happened, but he recovered more quickly than she did.  "I know it might be shocking to you, Little Miss Perfect, but there are very few times in my life where I get to feel like I've done anything right, so would you mind containing your worry about Harry for just a day?  I don't need you to tell me this should have been his instead."

"What?"

Hermione spoke in a high voice, and Ron shot a quick look at the portrait, afraid she'd roused the dowager, before he could face her again.  He was unnerved by the look of surprise on her face.

"Oh, come on.  Like you don't think so too.  I was there this morning, remember?"

A great red flush overspread Hermione's cheeks, though whether of anger or embarrassment Ron wasn't immediately sure.  She was silent for a long time, looking at him in a way that made his ears turn pink.

"I thought it would be Harry," she finally managed, in a near-whisper.  Her gaze dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of her shoes, before he heard the next part of her confession.  "But I'm really glad it's you."

Ron snorted his disbelief.  "Right.  I could tell by how eager you were to tell me I deserved it."

"Well, what was I supposed to say?" she snapped, her brown eyes rushing angrily up to his.  "Fred and George were standing right there.  Your mother was hanging all over you.  Harry was looking so bewildered.  It was…awkward."

"It wasn't awkward when you thought it was Harry," Ron pointed out, still unable to believe her words were anything more than an attempt to make him feel better.

"That's different," Hermione said, once again having difficulty meeting his gaze.

"How?"

Hermione met his challenge with defiance, bringing her head high, and sniffing, "It just is."

"Exactly.  Because Harry deserves it, and I don't."

"Oh Ron, why are you always so eager to put yourself down?" she sighed.  "You _do_ deserve this.  You deserve a lot more.  You…you're every bit the hero Harry is."

Ron could feel the red descending from his ears to his cheeks.  _Great.__  Now, I look like a tomato.  "I am?" he squeaked.  __And sound like a mouse._

"Yes."  Hermione's face was so red it almost made Ron feel better about his own.  Except on her, blushing was almost…well, cute.  "You took down that troll in first year, remember?"

"Harry helped.  And you taught me how to say that spell," he demurred, though he couldn't help feeling a little bit prouder.  More worthy.

"That didn't matter to me.  All I could think at the time was that you had saved me.  You're always saving me."  Hermione laughed.  "Remember when you tried to curse Malfoy the first time he called me Mu…that word?"

Ron made a face.  "Remember?  I can still taste those slugs.  Disgusting." 

"Yeah, well, Harry never burped slugs for me."

"No, Harry just saves the world every month or two.  Nothing to that, at all."  Ron made quite a sarcastic show of it.

"Yes, but you save Harry," Hermione returned, looking more serious than Ron had ever seen her.  "You save me too."

Ron was having difficulty saying anything back.  His mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out of it.  He was literally struck dumb by the expression on her face.  Hermione Granger was looking at him, for all the world, like he was her hero.  Not Harry.  Him.  Ron Weasley, the youngest son of a poor family, the untalented, non-brilliant, imperfect sidekick, was Hermione's hero.  

He couldn't speak, but somehow, he found himself grinning back at her.  A huge, familiar, face-tugging smile.

Hermione smiled back, still blushing.  She looked as though she was about to say something more and then stopped, getting to her feet and rushing up the stairs. She was almost to the top when he heard her stop.  

Ron stood up to face her, loving the way she looked overhanging the banister above him.  "Night, Hermione."

"Night, Ron.  Oh, and congratulations."  She turned away, red to the roots of her hair, and disappeared into her and Ginny's room, slamming the door behind her.

The sound of the door did what their conversation could not—it awoke the snoozing Mrs. Black.  "Mudbloods!  Blood-traitors!  Defiling my house!  I shall curse you all.  I shall bring down the wrath of my ancestors upon you!  Nasty, filthy…"

"Oi, shut up!" Ron hollered back, as he went up the stairs to bed, grinning all the way.


End file.
